


a mirror image, darker

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Spy Game (2001)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Spies & Secret Agents, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: They’re a few blocks from the ocean, the salt smell thick on every breath, the piercing cries of gulls and other sea birds reminding him achingly of home.Nathan, he’s sure, knows this. Had planned for it. It’s a tempting little slice of what could be if Tom chooses to walk away from the agency.
Relationships: Tom Bishop/Nathan Muir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	a mirror image, darker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I've wanted to write these two for a very long time, so I was so excited to see your prompts. Voyeurism wasn't on your list of likes, but it's related to the exhibitionism aspects I tried to work in, so I hope this works for you!

They trade cloudy, gray skies for sunny blue, but even “a couple days on the coast of Italy” isn’t a balm after Berlin; it’s just another lesson. Tom knows it the moment Nathan leans an elbow on the counter at the front desk and puts on an easy smile that’s bright, brilliant, and movie-star chic. He plays the part of an American tourist down to a tee as he wheedles a specific set of room keys off the peg.

Tom squints as they exit the small lobby back into the mid-afternoon sun. Heat flows in waves off mint green stucco, an occasional breeze kissing it away from his skin. They’re a few blocks from the ocean, the salt smell thick on every breath, the piercing cries of gulls and other sea birds reminding him achingly of home.

Nathan, he’s sure, knows this. Had planned for it. It’s a tempting little slice of what could be if Tom chooses to walk away from the agency. 

Hefting his duffel higher on his shoulder as they jog up the steps, the bag is newly burdensome. He gets to wear his own name, his own clothes, but the weight drags at him, twice as heavy as it’d been stepping off the train. Everything’s heavier after Schmidt.

He easily catches the key that Nathan throws his way and passes the pad of his thumb over the gold lettering etched into the plastic. “So, we’re sharing a wall, then?”

“You have a problem with that?”

Tom glances towards the direction of the beach. At this hour, the sand will be crowded with bodies, tanned brown and glistening. “A guy might want some company.”

Nathan’s bag hits the ground with a soft whump in front of room 3C. _Nothing’s stopping you,_ says his measured sidelong look, but after a beat he slots his key into the lock and asks, “What did you do when you had a girl in the basement?”

Tom shrugs. “Didn’t have one.”

“Girl? Or basement?”

“What’re we doing here, Nathan?” Tom can’t keep the exasperation from his tone. The keychain digs into the meat of his palm, rounded edges too blunt to hurt.

Not expecting an answer is the right call because he doesn’t get one. “Taking a break, so settle in and relax. I’ll swing by later tonight and we’ll have dinner. Say... ten o’clock?” That smile again, a flash of perfect white teeth.

“And if I want to grab a bite to eat on my own?”

“Suit yourself.”

Too casual. Too simple. The easiest lies are the ones you don’t need to work to prove, while the truths carve deep enough to expose marrow.

Unlatched, the door to Nathan’s room swings inward on its own weight. He grabs his bag and disappears into his room without another glance Tom’s way. _If you get caught, I won’t come after you._

A jittery unease like too much shit coffee rumbles in Tom’s gut as he explores his own digs to try and suss out the game. He’s already deduced it’s not about access to the stairwell or sightlines, and a quick sweep of the room tells him that not only are there no listening devices hidden in the lamps, but the cleaning crew could stand to do a better job.

What the fuck is he supposed to take away from this fleabag hotel?

A splash of cold water on his face quells the frustration sitting on his skin like a sunburn, but even the idea of trying to lay down and flip on the television to while away a few hours has him pocketing the key and ducking outside. His feet carry him down the narrow streets towards the water, hurried at first, then slowing into a casual stroll as his mood clears.

He buys a newspaper and a handful of plums from a street vendor, then finds a stretch of low wall to sit on as he eats them, one after the other. Assessing a crowd is second nature to him now, and as he shines a plum on his shirt to the rich, red glow of a fresh bruise, it strikes him that he can’t do anything other than sort the sea of faces around him. He categorizes everyone: local or tourist, wolf or sheep. Most everyone wears their lives on their sleeves, and he pegs the couples with marital trouble, the dozens of budding romances, plenty of teenage ennui, a few pickpockets, a few wannabe pickpockets…. Halfway across the world and people are still the same.

Tom tosses a pit into the sand, having hardly tasted the flesh it carried, but the juice he licks off the joint of his thumb is sugar sweet. He remains perched where he is on sun-warmed stone, shading his eyes with the paper to watch the waves lap against the shore and, eventually, for the crowd to thin as late afternoon turns to evening. The hissing of the Mediterranean is a far cry from the thunderous crash of the Pacific, but it’s soothing and rhythmic, and for a while, he even stops counting down the time carrying him towards Nathan’s ten o’clock rendezvous.

It’s full dark when he meanders back up the hill to mingle with tourists clogging the streets as they wait for tables. Small talk is second-nature now. Questions flow like wine and he never really gives anything about himself away. He lets whoever he’s talking with fill in the blanks. Lets them decide who he is. Plausible deniability. A foundation made not of stone, but of sand, one that can be swept aside by a breezy laugh and a simple, “What made you think that?”

Through it all, Tom’s still watching the clock. At five past ten, Nathan exits the hotel, pauses briefly to fix a driving cap on his head and proceeds north at a leisurely stroll.

Gently, Tom disengages from the woman he’s been chatting with, steps hastening only long enough to ensure he doesn’t lose sight of that cap in the twisting streets. With the both of them still acclimated to Germany’s weather, it’s warm enough that there’s no need for even a light jacket, and if the cap hides the familiar shock of Nathan’s blond hair, his white linen shirt makes him equally easy to tail.

Nathan ends up in a place crammed with maybe a dozen tables. He takes a seat at the bar and starts, as he often does, by pointing to a top-shelf whisky. Feeling like the mouse getting one over on the cat, Tom backtracks a bit, buys a simple loaf of bread from a shop that’s already closing down for the night, and returns to take up a position that’s shadowed but not suspicious.

_What’s the op?_ he wonders, tearing off and nibbling on chunks of bread as he watches Nathan order a meal. It has to be something low stakes, nothing with any lead up. A simple hand-off, maybe? A little carrier pigeon action as they bounce around the Western Bloc.

The night stretches on. Nathan enjoys another drink. A few people filter in and out, none of any consequence. The man tending bar spends more and more of his time chatting with Nathan, his body language shifting until he’s leaning in, smiles less broad and more genuine. From here, it’s impossible to know whether or not Nathan’s cultivating the reaction on purpose.

_Seduction tactics are effective but risky. Hurt feelings can be landmines, and with a face like yours, I’m sure you’ve broken a few hearts. Sometimes, though, batting your lashes is the quickest way to get close to an asset._

Is that what’s happening here? Pouring some honey is a lot less risky if you’re cutting town in a few days. 

It’s only when the restaurant is empty that Nathan pays his bill. At the corner of the bar, he pauses to fold the receipt neatly and tuck it away in his wallet. He’ll have tipped well enough to not seem stingy, but not so well that anyone would remember him. Tom tosses the heel of the loaf down the alley behind him for the rats and peels away from the wall. For a heartbeat, he wonders if he’s misread things and wasted half the night watching his supervisory agent eat supper, but when Nathan tosses a subtle glance back at the bartender, the hairs on the back of Tom’s arms rise.

It’s going to play out like this: Nathan will turn around and pretend like he forgot something, lean his forearms on the bar for one last chat. He’ll flash that smile of his with enough confidence to be charming and enough humility to not come off like an asshole, striking the same balance as he had with the bill. He’ll duck his head, a move that worked better when he was in his twenties like Tom, but still disarms the man who he’s been softening up all night.

Tom rubs a hand over his mouth as Nathan works his magic. His breath leaks through his fingers, warm now in air that rides the edge of too cool. He could head straight back to the hotel and let Nathan continue on with this uninterrupted, or—

The bell above the door jingles as Nathan steps out into the street, and Tom finds himself moving to intercept.

“You’re a little late,” Nathan comments, unruffled as Tom steps into his personal space.

“Better late than never.” Tom flicks a glance towards the restaurant windows. Nathan’s bartender juggles glasses in a hurry to clean up. “What’s he have?”

“Something I came here to get.”

The wordplay that typically exhilarates him stings like needles tonight. Nathan hadn’t brought him into the fold for Cathcart, so is this the new test? To give him an out or make him run another op with no information, practically an asset himself? His stomach burns, acid hot, as he raises a brow and forges a smile. “Looks like you didn’t need me, after all. Are you taking him back to the hotel?”

“You weren’t here, so that’s the plan.”

“Could’ve just told me what you needed.”

Nathan’s hand slaps to Tom’s chest so suddenly he retreats unthinkingly. Taking advantage of the momentum, Nathan’s grim, “I need you to hear what I’m saying,” falls between them as he steers Tom deftly away from the windows and lines of sight. “I used you and it burns.” The pressure at Tom’s sternum disappears, but the intensity in Nathan’s pale eyes holds steady; Tom fights the urge to rip away from that too-calm gaze. “But if you don’t brush that burr out from under your saddle, you’re going to get people killed. The wrong people. 

“You want to walk? Do it. You want to pick up some random stranger and fuck them until they scream? Do it. You have choices. If you want to know what this partnership could look like if everything wasn’t eyes-only or need-to-know? Well, tough shit, that’s not one of your options. It will never be. This life is full of secrets, lies, and not very many happy endings, and you need to come to terms with that.”

Tom twists his face to the sky, where a faint scatter of stars peek through cotton-wisp clouds. “I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.” The cool steel in Nathan’s gaze doesn’t soften. “You don’t like the game, but it’s who you are now. You’re in it, and you're good at it. You know who else is good? The other guy.”

“I—” Tom’s throat closes around a guttural sound. He can’t deny it. He can’t close a lid on this box even if he wants to.

“Go back to your room, Tom. Pack your bags or take a good long look in the mirror because this is your one and only chance to consider what it is you really want.” With that, Nathan turns away from him, closing the book on the conversation entirely.

_What he really wants…_

The bell on the door jingles cheerily again. “Good seeing you! What are the odds?” Tom calls, tossing a friendly parting wave, casual and breezy, like they’d happened to share a train car or chat in an airport lounge.

“Take it easy,” Nathan absently calls back, his voice dropping quickly to an intimate tone as he greets the bartender.

Tom’s straining ears don’t catch a word, but Nathan’s low murmur follows him like a shadow. He doesn’t bother taking a parallel route back to the hotel, going straight back at a steady clip, safe in the knowledge that Nathan will take the long way around to avoid retracing his steps.

The door rattles on its hinges as Tom shuts it and flips the bolt. The room wasn’t spacious to begin with but now it’s twice as small. He paces along the foot of the bed, his reflection in the long mirror fixed to the wall that of a trapped animal, restless and pacing in its cage. Cursing, he grabs his duffel from the rack in the closet and shoves his things into it by the fistful. So, he flies home, and then what? He gets a job selling televisions or hawking furniture like any sad sack who’s been overseas?

Angrily thrusting another shirt into the tangle of clothes crammed into his bag, Tom drives his fist into the pile. Hits it again and again and it doesn’t make him feel a lick better. A growl bristles in his throat, siphoning his breath until he’s gulping for lungfuls. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Nathan’s right. He’s in this life and he’s good at it. If it’s not the Free World’s ends justified…

The fever of his temper breaks. He spits an anguished _“Fuck”_ into the quiet and grabs the duffel to shake it empty. He throws it back towards the closet, clothes strewn like hurricane debris and him in the eye of the storm. Alone. Staring into his own shadowed gaze in an ugly fucking mirror that barely matches the rest of this shithole.

A specific room in this shithole.

His gaze drifts to the edges of the mirror, pulled there by the magnet of a half-formed thought. _Take a good long look…_

“Nathan, you fucking asshole,” he breathes, lunging to grab the frame. He’d checked behind the paintings hung on the walls but not this. It looked too heavy for one man to move.

He taps a fingernail against the thick decorative frame to find it made of tin, not steel, and curls his hands to lift. It’s much, much lighter than it looks. As he pulls it off the nails, the bang of Nathan’s door and muffled familiar laughter rips through him like a bullet.

Tom nearly drops the whole thing. Lighter doesn’t mean light, but he manages to maneuver it to the bed. He dusts off his hands, belly taut with the effort and an anticipatory nervousness as he turns to find a thin curtain strung across the bared patch of wall.

That’s why these two rooms.

“I can’t wait to get my mouth on your dick.” The bartender’s voice is still muted, but without the mirror on his side blocking the space, Tom easily makes out every single word. Nathan’s answering, “So take it out,” makes his stomach flip, a hard dump of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He doesn’t have to push that curtain aside, doesn’t need to see what’s happening in the other room. If he doesn’t want to slip outside, he could flip on the radio for noise.

“Not so fast,” Nathan says, patient but clearly in command. “We’ve got all night.”

Tom’s hand drifts down to cup his crotch, his pants tightening. In the span of a few breaths he’s already replayed his entire conversation with Nathan in his head, re-evaluated their interactions from Berlin to here, and placed bets on which parts of it all were genuine.

Maybe Nathan thought that sleeping with him would make him want to stay, or maybe it’s more than that, an apology and a plea knotted together. Or a confession, in some small part, the kind you can only make across a pillow.

_You’re different,_ Sandy had told him before she was on to her next assignment. _Be careful._

Careful wouldn’t volunteer for the war. Careful wouldn’t thrive on going into the unknown with a pack of gum, some cigarettes, and a smile.

He kills the lamp, his fingers made of pins and needles as he plucks at the curtain. Sliding it open reveals a window into the other room where Nathan stands, cap off, his hair mussed rakishly as he looks down at the young man kneeling at his feet.

“That’s it…” Nathan cradles a broad palm beneath the other man’s chin as slim, clever fingers tease open his belt. His thumb ghosts over the sharp line of the man’s jaw and Tom shivers, lifting his own hand to trace the spot and imagine himself there, on his knees in front of Nathan. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s pictured it. “Nice and easy. I’ve always enjoyed a good show.”

A bolt of lightning crackles down Tom’s spine. Nathan doesn’t look towards the mirror—towards him—but he would’ve seen the lights on and now he’s banking on Tom listening. On _wanting_ to listen. Did he enjoy the show when he’d sent Tom in on his first solo seduction, too?

Soft lips run over the bulge in Nathan’s pants. “I like to put one on.” 

As the leather slides free of his belt loops, Nathan takes the belt from the man’s hands and tosses it onto the bed. He plunges his fingers into wild, dark curls, stares down into pleasure-lidded eyes, and curves a very different smile than Tom has ever seen cross his face. Nathan’s smiles are always genial, occasionally a touch sly, but this… this is _hungry_.

Tom tips his head back to feel the stretch of his own throat. He wouldn’t curve so easily to Nathan’s touch. He’d already be peeling open Nathan’s trousers and fighting against the fingers in his hair to get a mouthful of cock.

“It’s why I knew we’d get along, Giancarlo.”

“Is your friend listening?” Giancarlo turns a smoky glance to the mirror. Tom hardly notices. The handsome young man on his knees is inconsequential. He’ll have a good time by the sound of it, but he’s the means to an end. The intermediary. The asset.

“I hope so.”

A pleased murmur, and, “Me too,” as Nathan steers the young man’s attention back to him. His fingers flex in the man’s hair, curls crumpling into his fist before easing up, his blunt nails lightly scratching. Giancarlo’s eyes close to slits as Nathan says, “Take your cock out first. I want it in your hand before my zipper’s open.”

The instruction isn’t meant just for Giancarlo. Damp palm still pressed to the wall beside the two-way mirror, Tom fumbles with the other to undo his pants, skidding his legs apart to keep his pants trapped at his thighs as he pulls his dick free. His heartbeat thumps in his skull, the echo of his pulse throbbing in the already stiffened length he wraps in a desperate grip.

“Give it a tug,” Nathan says. “I want it nice and hard before you get a taste of mine.”

“You think I’m not hard for you, Nathan?” Tom murmurs, his breath fogging the rear of the mirror as he squeezes his cock and strokes himself.

“Now that’s nice to look at. A pretty cock to match your pretty face.” Nathan’s hand slips free of the man’s curls. He lifts his wrist and undoes his watch, folding the band back and tucking it away in his pocket for safekeeping. “Now open my pants and open your mouth.”

The way Nathan gives the order is so unlike what Tom expects, he’s not sure if it makes him hot or if it’s turning him off. He’s only heard Nathan be this direct stepping him through tradecraft. Otherwise, the man rarely comes at something head on, always approaching at an angle, so you find yourself agreeing with him before you know it.

“Keep jerking yourself, nice and slow, you’re going to get a taste soon enough,” Nathan says. Tom watches avidly as Nathan’s zipper drags down, the placket folded open by clever fingers that curl into the elastics of Nathan’s boxers to tug them down over his straining cock. If it were him looking up at Nathan he wouldn’t be so careful. He’d want to bare that cock the minute they were inside with the same giddy thrill of lifting up a woman’s skirt, an eagerness to get his mouth busy driving him on.

“That’s good, just like that,” Nathan encourages, and Tom’s breath hitches, the easy stroke of his hand interrupted by the lightning shock that cracks through him when Nathan turns a sly sidelong look at the mirror to say, “You’re doing great.”

Tom had never considered himself an exhibtionist until that night with Nathan watching from the building across the way. With each move he made, all he could think about wasn’t the pleasure of the woman laid out in front of him, but what Nathan was seeing.

What if he’d been jerking off watching Tom sleep with the asset to get them access to the right rolodex? What if he’d been whispering those very same things? _That’s good, just like that,_ as he peered through the scope and watched Tom crawl on top of her and tug her panties off and promise her he was going to make her feel good.

_Don’t rush it. With a one-time seduction that goes all the way to the bedroom, you need to play it right,_ Nathan had told him before the op. _It’s just like tipping. You don’t want to be too good, or too bad. You’re a fun time, but forgettable. You leave enough red flags that the mark doesn’t kick you out, but they don’t want to call you the next day._

Like every trial Nathan threw at him, that meant feeling it out moment by moment. He’d gotten the girl off first, but shot it on her thigh while fumbling to push inside her. Faked embarrassment when really it’d been the high of knowing Nathan was watching him that had him losing it after only a couple strokes. She’d pet his hair and told him it was okay, asked if it was still good for him. He’d licked the mess up off her leg, promised that it was and got her off a second time. Told her that he loves—

“... keeping your mouth busy, don’t you?” Nathan asks.

Giancarlo hums a yes as he swallows Nathan’s cock in a slow, wet slide.

Tom bites his lip and moves away from the mirror to kick off his shoes and strip off his clothes. He grabs the box of tissues and the courtesy lotion from the bathroom, cap flipped and palm greased in time to watch Nathan pull his shirt off overhead.

It’s not the first time he’s seen Nathan half-naked and admired the golden curls spread across his chest. But furtive looks and stolen glances are one thing, and having the leisure to watch is another. “That’s wonderful, just wonderful,” Nathan hums, palm rubbing over a nipple to bring it to a tight peak. He gives it a tug and Tom follows suit, the sensation arcing straight down to his balls. “Keep on like that, wet and slow. Show me how much you love it.”

“Oh, I’d show you, all right,” Tom breathes, tracing his tongue over his upper lip. He jacks himself slowly, fist loose at the head of his cock, not matching the pace of the man on his knees, but the slide of Nathan’s hand wandering across his own chest. Fucking lazily into a wet mouth is one thing, but Nathan knows he’s being watched—the drift of his fingers up and down the line of his body is the real show.

_I want you touching me,_ the graze of his fingers says. _This is what I like._

If it’d been him who’d ended up in the room with Nathan, would it be his mouth following that meandering path? His lips dragging through soft curls, brushing over the hard points of Nathan’s nipples? Would Nathan like the hard edge of teeth on him and a soft lick to follow?

“That’s nice, babe. Real nice,” Nathan says. He runs both hands through his hair, fingers lacing at the back of his skull and body stretched lean and gorgeous. His eyes go heavy-lidded and he smiles to himself. “You still have that pretty cock in your hand?”

“Yes,” Tom answers.

“Do you want to come before I fuck you?”

Teeth closing on his lip, fist tightening, Tom nods.

“Are you close?”

“Very.”

“Come here.” Nathan urges Giancarlo to stand. He knocks the man’s hand aside and closes a fist over the man’s cock. He curls a hand at the nape of Giancarlo’s neck as he strokes him. “Better this way, isn’t it?”

“Much better.” Giancarlo sways drunkenly, leaning into Nathan, with a low, “I want to kiss you,” and a lazy smile on offer.

Nathan indulges him, dips his head to nudge their mouths together. Tom licks his lips again, breaths shallow as he watches Nathan take the man’s mouth. Giancarlo’s lashes drop, his eyes falling shut. Nathan though… his gaze slips sideways again to the mirror.

It’s enough to pull Tom over the edge. To leave him shaking and spurting into a tissue.

He nearly misses the moment when Nathan pulls the man into an embrace to finish him off, stares over his shoulder for a more direct look into the mirror, and mouths, “Get ready.”

Adrenaline blazes through hazy lingering pleasure. He stares, cock still thick in his hand, long enough for Giancarlo to give it up to Nathan almost as quickly as he had, and it’s Nathan’s gaze steady on the mirror instead of on the man shivering in his hold that kicks Tom into motion. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ It is an op.

He throws the tissue into the bin and scrambles to get dressed. He’s hopping into his trousers as Giancarlo disappears into the bathroom and Nathan hastens to grab the pen from the writing desk to scrawl a quick note into a cocktail napkin. He slaps it to the mirror, holds it there beneath his palm for Tom to translate his shorthand: _‘Bar. Floor safe. Combo in register. Transfer. Be back one hour.’_

“You there, Boy Scout?” Nathan mouths.

“Yes, I’m fucking here,” he mutters. He taps an affirmative against the glass and then he’s slipping out into the quiet of the night.

The streets are empty, eerie after the sunlight and bustle earlier that day. Like he left one city behind when he walked into that cramped room and come out the other side in a brand new one. One that seems to suit Nathan a whole lot more. 

Dozens of questions swarm in the back of his mind as he carries out Nathan’s instructions to pop the safe. He ignores the cash and the revolver in favor of a heavy, leatherbound book. Finding a corner to hole up in, Tom tucks a flashlight under his jaw and hastily copies the pages of the ledger into his pocket notepad, building up a key to abbreviate names to save letters and shave time. Each second counts and he can’t afford to be distracted from the task at hand, but the moment he’s done and tucking everything neatly back into its place, all those questions come roaring back—a breaker crashing on the shore, sweeping him out into the unknown.

Tom checks the time, lights a cigarette and wanders back with the ambling stroll of a man simply out for a late-night smoke. He’s back at the motel, hanging on the walkway in front of his open door and flicking ash to the ground when Giancarlo emerges from Nathan’s room, curls disheveled and hickeys staining his throat.

They lock eyes briefly. A knowing glance to the marks on his neck and Giancarlo smiles sweetly before dropping his gaze and hurrying past, none of his bravado left in the face of the man who’d just presumably watched him get fucked.

The cigarette is down to the filter when the door opens a second time.

“Have a good time?”

“Did you?”

Tom twists to lean his hip against the wrought iron railing. “Could’ve been better.” He flexes his fingers, the muscles taut from gripping a small pencil too tightly for so long. “Hand’s a little tired.”

“Could’ve been you if you’d joined me for dinner, you know.”

“With him? Or with you?”

Nathan plucks the cigarette from Tom’s fingers and takes a final drag. He’s already spotted the whirlwind of clothes strewn around Tom’s room, surely. “You’re not his type.”

“What’s your type, Nathan?”

No smile. No quiet whuff of a laugh. Only storm blue eyes catching on his—weighted with their own questions, their own theories—a mirror image, darker. Nathan grinds the cigarette out on the railing. “I was thinking we could get a car and take a drive along the coast. Maybe go all the way to Monaco. What do you say?”

“It would be more fun to sail there.”

“Tight quarters on a small boat.”

“I think we’ll make do.”


End file.
